


Tri-Geist

by RushAround



Series: Scooter's Crew [2]
Category: The Property of Hate
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 01:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14864514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RushAround/pseuds/RushAround
Summary: Jo considers the spirits of her work place and production continues.





	Tri-Geist

There was a ghost on set where she worked.

No, the studio was hardly haunted, though that expression may have very well been applied to a handful of the staff whenever the Mr. Producer entered the building with the Mr. Director in close tow. Interns, a mindless barrage of young hopefuls fresh from the throes of higher education, coagulated into one, single empty headed, multi-legged, chatting and texting creature, formed a thin line, down which, coffees and donuts made the rounds, passing camera men, stage hands, undercover critics, extras, actors, costume designers, makeup specialists and a wooden horse, straight to the hands of the Mr. Producer and the Mr. Director.

They would bid the first four people encountered good morning, and no one else, before traversing the set to speak to the ghost. 

No ouija boards, nor oracles, were necessary for these conversations, for the ghost could be found quite plainly and easily and physically sat in his designated chair just off stage left where the morning sun would not catch his face. For this was the type of ghost that could indeed be sunned, and did not like it. And so it would go, the ghost would fold his slender legs comfortably, picking at loose threads in the nearest cheap spat, and idly turn his Cane of fake bamboo laying across his lap until he conceded to the face of fact he could not encourage the head of such to defy gravity.

And he would do this in the dark corner of stage left until the Mr. Producer and the Mr. Director spoke him into existence, which was a terrifying experience. For they spoke loudly, and he in turn, became a loud but very quiet something to be held by everyone else occupying the set. Including those whom did not particularly like the ghost, and those who despised the ghost. A majority. 

The minority did neither and nothing of the opposite sense. 

Not on set, anyway.

And so, the Mr. Producer, finished with filling the ghost’s shell of a body halfway with the day’s deadlines and talk of money, would leave the set and the Mr. Director to finish the job.

The ghost now filled with pointed pointers as pointy as the Mr. Director’s pointy nose, money talk and reminders to smile for the audience and no one else, rose, fake cane on his wrist, black bowtie in place and posture armed like a shotgun, ready to run at any moment, would walk to center stage and enter the lights, whereunder he became Bunker, host of Scooter’s Crew, a rising skit and comedy show that played late in the evening for the parents of children whom slept properly for school. That is to say, a show for the whole family.

Now she, returning to the she, she was an actress. So to speak. She did not have a very big roll, she did not work very long hours, and she was not paid very much. But she was the Tambourine Lady, and she would don her rose coloured, high collar costume, her gold bangles and bracelets and her green and red Tambourine upon instruction of the Mr. Producer through the Mr. Director, or she would not be paid. And lord should know she’d hardly delved into the job because of the artistic merit of smacking the bastard child of finger bells and a prideless snare drum against one’s hip and pretending to be a curiously offensive and yet alluring gypsy circus woman musical hybrid. Though, that is how he’d described it, and it sounded far more interesting to her.

“He” was not the Mr. Director. “He” was someone else, though perhaps you remember him?

Bunker was a cheerful man. So it seemed. He was chipper and helpful and honorable. So it seemed. He lived up to his name and guided the audience through the shows going abouts. He was funny, and charming, and full, and so very, very, very smiley. So it seemed. And he was loved. 

The ghost was not.

Lunch would arrive in the form of a large, white metal cart on half wheels. She would stand back and let the interns swoop and swarm like clipped wing seagulls, having their go first, lest she be trampled. Then the tambourine would remain unplayed for all eternity, surely. And He would be upset. 

Again, not the Mr. Director.

The ghost did not partake in lunch. Not that this ghost was really a ghost and did not need to eat, simply that he was already full. So to speak.

Instead, he would sit in his chair in the shade and try to disappear as much as he possibly could until the glares that would surely, somehow find their ways over would slip straight through him and ding the wall at his back, causing the architect of the establishment an inexplicable itch about the neck, wherever they were.

She could remember why they - all of them - they had begun to dislike the ghost. Jealousy was certainly a sweating mistress in the dining hall, stealing silverware, but she knew very well it drilled deeper, settled heavier at the base of the well, than simple, top soil jealousy.

She wasn’t about to tell you of course. All you needed to know was that she knew.

And so, she would pick up the old, empty makeup bag that was once her own, now cleared and cleaned and empty like most things, and filled it with whatever food she could grasp through the crowd. 

Stowing it away where no one would find it - because they did search. Frequently - She meandered back behind the audience seating, along the darkened wall beyond stage left, and stood by the ghost, who looked quite transparent.

The ghost lifted a pale brown eye towards her, cheek propped on a gloved fist, arm propped on the side of the seat, legs folded boredly, shamboo cane hung on his knee. He seemed paler than yesterday, but she knew he knew that and didn’t speak of it. 

Instead she offered him a Styrofoam cup of water. Surely he wouldn’t refuse a drink as clear as he wished to be. The ghost stared at it, blinked, turned his head very slightly to the crew and crowd and seagulls now milling about the lunch cart, and blinked again, face as impassive as if he were taking photographs of a suspect from a window, though He would hardly be brave enough for the task.

The ghost did not see the Mr. Producer. The ghost did not see the Mr. Director. And so the ghost accepted the drink, and she was not glad. Or so it seemed. 

Taping ended late in the evening, even later for Bunker. By the time the front and spotlights had been snuffed -taking Bunker with them- the stars were already doing whatever stars did and the moon was no different. They were just easier to see under different lights. 

The ghost took his leave, strode off stage, through the building, and out the side door, where Jo would always be waiting. 

“Long day?” She asked.

“I suspect you should know.” Replied Argyle B. Guide.

“I do know, I was just wondering how much of it you remember.”

“I remember a drink at lunch.”

“That’s good enough for me.” 

“Jo.”

“Yes, Argyle?”

“Don’t ever do that again.”


End file.
